


checkmate

by alyquens



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Dreamon, Gen, Prison, Short, no beta we die like everyone's emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:53:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28915659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyquens/pseuds/alyquens
Summary: How fitting that he had ordered the construction of his final home, watched as hours of labor raised imposing walls, never thinking that one day he’d be the one inside. How ironic that the puppetmaster becomes the one tangled in hopeless strings, dangling over the edge from the fall from grace, hovering over the dark pits of the stage.
Kudos: 38





	checkmate

**Author's Note:**

> idk if this is like appropriate to post on ao3 it's quite short i just really like it so boom here you go *runs away*

Black sweeps the prison, even more so than he thought. The darkness is overwhelming, creeping tendrils of shadow snuffing out the light, swallowing his words eagerly, feeding off of the living and the dead alike.

Dream coughs, a small, pitiful noise; the heavy silence snatches it up eagerly before it can travel any further. His head throbs, his entire body aches, old and new hurt alike opened up by the last fight.

To anyone else, he’s just another prisoner, another lawbreaker in the long list of names. But he knows that the guards keep a tighter watch on him, know they tighten the locks out of wariness, know they carry conversations in hushed whispers about security, about  _ him. _

A bitter laugh forces its way out of his throat, sounding bleaker than ever in the smothering silence. Some part of him knows he deserves to be here; he shuffles the atrocities he’s committed in his head, each one harsher and heavier than the last. 

How fitting that he had ordered the construction of his final home, watched as hours of labor raised imposing walls, never thinking that one day he’d be the one inside. How ironic that the puppetmaster becomes the one tangled in hopeless strings, dangling over the edge from the fall from grace, hovering over the dark pits of the stage. 

He’d done this to himself, hadn’t he? Taken the steps down the path of villainy, slow at first, until he’d rushed past, feet pounding into the hard ground as he descended into the ruined madness, watching as the fire sparked and bloomed, a terrible yet beautiful burning all the same.

Had he really, though? 

Dream’s initial footfalls down the path - he’d stumbled into it, pushed and shoved in the clamor of war, unaware of the road he’d been unknowingly led into, dragged by the strings tied around his fingers. But now? He’d embraced it, enjoying every second of power, of control, of moving the pieces around the board, watching dark take light slowly, every excruciating square at a time. 

Until he’d fucked up. 

He’s the king in this situation, isn’t he? But what good is a king against an army? When he’s trapped in the corner, unable to move, all control utterly lost. 

_ Checkmate _ . 

But despite all of this, he’s still won, hasn’t he? In a small, fucked up way, Dream’s still won. He has a home now, surrounded by towering walls of solitude. The last place he’d ever expect to call home, yet his roots sink into the floor, tearing through the stone, stitching himself into this dark cell. A fitting home, a depraved cell for the mad king. 

He’s got the happy family too, everyone turning to fight him. But they’re happy now, aren’t they? All united? 

Before he’s entirely aware of what’s happening, hot tears are streaming down his face, splattering against the ground, a wave of hopeless rain crashing down upon the sharp rocks of his shore. This is all his fault - he’s won, but at what cost? 

His head pounds, thoughts echoing and reverberating, tumbling against the broken walls of his mind. It hurts, it hurts so goddamn much; all the fire in the world can’t compare to the inferno that tears him apart. Walls come crumbling down, ashes scattered across the tiled floor. 

Memories flash through his mind, dripping with the tears, searing themself into his vision. He watches as he twists and lies and breaks and destroys, watches as George turns away tearfully, Sapnap hovering protectively over him, watches as Tommy freezes in front of him, a wave of pure terror washing across his face, put there by Dream, Dream who’d he’d thought of as a brother. He watches all these scenes unfold, a grisly home movie unspooling from the film, each minute ticking by, watching as the strings finally snap-

He’s crying now, really crying, eyes scrunched in frustration and  _ hurt _ . In those last moments, before all of them, when he’d really thought he’d die- it was  _ him.  _ Desperately begging because it’s his last chance, his only way of control, of keeping the demon at bay. 

He can’t die, not like this. Even in this cell, even corrupted as every part of him is slowly eaten away, consumed by the creeping darkness, he’s the only thing standing between peace and utter chaos.

He’s the king on the chessboard? No. 

He’s just another pawn, really, the last light piece falling to the dark, trapped behind a glass as him - his body - hurts everything he ever cared for. 

But he’s still won, right?

Even after all the fights, after watching the last remnants of himself burn to ash, after sacrificing piece after piece after piece in a desperate attempt to seize victory.

_ Checkmate.  _

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading :]


End file.
